


winter's lady

by museme87



Series: winter's queen [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (but prior to the reveal), Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, R Plus L Equals J, Reunions, Starkcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 23:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/pseuds/museme87
Summary: Arya Stark returns to Winterfell.





	winter's lady

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic has been a long time coming. It's the fic that begins the Winter's Queen in Spring 'verse (or, WQ 'verse, as I call it); I've not plotted out anything occurring before this. As always in this 'verse, the five year gap happened, which roughly puts Jon and Arya seven years apart. I've mentioned that in fic as well, but just a head's up.

They wake him at the hour of ghosts to tell him Arya Stark has returned home. Jon’s heart falters, but not from joy. Maybe it would have, long ago, before Alys Karstark and Jeyne Poole. Maybe he would have risen quickly from his bed, thrown a cloak about his shoulders, and ran to where his men held her. But Jon has learned—Old Gods help him, he has _learned_ —that news of his little sister only ends in grief.

His men have not yet figured this out as they puzzle over his stillness. Satin knows though, dismissing the two men who brought word of Arya. Its only when the door closes that Satin’s face turns to pity and he sighs. With a degree of boldness, Satin kneels before Jon where he sits upon his bed and brushes the top of Jon’s hand with his own, the air heavy with understanding.

“I will send the girl away,” Satin offers.

Jon exhales. “No. I’ll see the pretender for myself.”

“You don’t have to, Jon. It’s better to forget this ever happened.”

Jon thinks to challenge his steward’s familiarity, but the fight leaves him. He has ostracized so many of his friends since becoming lord commander, and the crown that now rests heavy on his head has only made it worse. Satin is all he has left here at Winterfell, and Jon supposes that even kings must have someone.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” Jon says, resting a hand on Satin’s shoulder. “But this is _Arya_ , and my little sister’s spirit deserves to finally rest. Tomorrow you’ll spread word that those who would use my sister’s name for gain are enemies of the North.”

Jon watches as Satin opens his mouth to speak, only to shut it and nod. Jon nods back and gives his shoulder a squeeze in thanks.

“Send the girl to my audience chamber.”

 

~*~

 

The flames lick stone and wood, warming his too-hot cheeks.

 _The heart is all that matters. Your sister is not lost to you_.

He closes his eyes against the sight of dancing fire. There is an ache in his breast, a hurt that pangs in some empty place within him where his heart must once have been. He shudders a breath at the memory of the Red Woman’s words, sweet with promise. But it had been a cloying sweetness, one that stunk of death, though he had not known it at the time. His own death and, in its own way, hers. 

 _I have seen your sister in my fires. A girl in grey on a dying horse, I have seen it plain as day_. 

His shoulders sag. Gods, what a green boy he had been still. He had thought he’d heeded Maester Aemon’s words; he’d thought that the boy had been killed when he’d taken the mantle of Lord Commander. Perhaps he had even succeeded, he supposes. But Arya…she had been his weakness then, and Jon realizes that it is not so different even now.

 _I will save your sister if I can, and find a better match for her than Ramsay Snow_. 

Here he is, after all, in the dead of night, waiting for his men to bring him a woman he knows cannot possibly be his dead sister. There are affairs to see to at dawn—starving people in need of food, men in need of training, and a battle brewing in the distance with creatures from a childhood tale—yet he has allowed himself to be pulled from his bed all the same, fool that he is. To protect her memory, he supposes, in hopes that she might forgive him for not being there to protect her when she needed him most.

 _M’lord, you’re wanted. Beg pardon, m’lord. A girl’s been found_.  

His throat tightens, threatens to refuse him air. Jon shuts his eyes against their wetness, shudders a breath to try to fill his lungs. There is a kingdom that needs him, he reminds himself again, and a war to be fought. And _after_ —if there _is_ an after—after, there are negotiations and red stone castles and, if his father’s Gods are kind, a body somewhere in a tower that he might bury in Winterfell so that they both may rest.

Gods, how he aches for rest.

Behind him, the door to his audience room opens with a _creak_ , bringing in the cold and something far worse. Jon does not stir, _cannot_ stir. It is all he can do to force his eyes open and will his face into a kingly mask; whether he succeeds he cannot say.

“Your Grace, the girl.”

Satin. And Jon is grateful that his steward knows him well enough to leave without further word, the door creaking closed once again. He needs no audience for what is about to transpire.

There is silence, as if the wind beyond the door had ushered in a ghost, not a girl. And try as he might, Jon cannot bring himself to turn to face whoever the Gods have brought to his doorstep. He is frozen by the memories of heartbreak before, of bold-pretty Alys and once-pretty Jeyne where a plain little girl should have stood. He brings his hand to his chest, over his breast, and takes stock of his heart, wondering if it can survive the pierce of another knife. It feels too weak to him—hardly the heart of a winter king.

“You’re not the first,” he says, eyes transfixed on the flame before him. “I’ve been disappointed before.”

His voice is hoarse and unsteady to his own ears, but Jon desperately hopes that he has fooled his guest. He waits—one moment, then two—for the girl to shatter the heavy silence of the room, but no sound comes. _Maybe it is a ghost_ , he thinks. _Or I’ve dreamt it all_. It would not be the first time she had come to him in the night.

“I’m sorry that it took so long.”

The bare whisper of her voice startles him. Jon slowly shakes his head and shuts his eyes tightly. His mind toys with him, making the voice of _this_ girl sound so like hers. He hears the timbre of uncertainty, of fear, beneath the forced steadiness of her voice. It reminds him of a little girl he once loved more than life itself who put on a fierce face when she hurt too deeply. 

“I couldn’t have imagined back then how difficult my road would be.”

 _Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle_.

Jon turns suddenly, his breathe leaving him as quickly as if he’d been dealt a blow. He expects to see a girl of nine, but a woman grown stands before him. Still small, still slight. Her dark hair cropped boyish short, her face long and skin pale as milk. Jon doesn’t let himself believe it at first, but then she sets her sights on _him_ and her hand goes to her mouth, eyes wide and hesitant. Gray eyes.

 _Their_ eyes.

A force brings him to her, though it feels like a lifetime before he has drawn her into his arms. She folds easily against him as she once had as a girl, this tiny little thing he once feared to crush. Jon tucks her head beneath his chin, holds her tightly, as if the smallest space between them might separate them for good.

When he dares draw back, Jon takes her hands into his own. They’re cold and stiff, so he warms them by placing chaste kisses along her fingers and bringing them to his fire-warmed cheeks. Starved for family—for _Arya_ —Jon cannot stop touching her. He brings her hands to his chest, covering them with one large hand to drive off the chill, and then reaches for her hair with the other. Jon smoothes it from crown to jaw, his palm cupping her there and his thumb stroking her cheek.

“Your hair is wet from the snow.”

Arya bites her chapped lip, eyes downcast. And Jon feels like a _fool_. All these years between them, and that’s the first thing he says to her—some comment about her hair. Not _I love you_. Not _I have missed you_. Not _where have you been all this time_. He has spent night after night imagining what it might be like if she were still be alive, if he had found her. He should have _known_ what to tell her if this moment were to ever pass. He should have _practiced_. And yet, he hadn’t, and Jon prays she will not mislike him for it.

“Come,” he says, knowing there is nothing to be done for it now. “You need to dry yourself and warm up.”

When he tugs her hand to draw her near the fire, he is met with resistance. Jon tries once more, but Arya does not follow. Instead, she stares at her boots and continues to worry her lip.

“It’s been seven years since we last saw each other,” Arya explains. “Jon, I don’t want to be a…a _disappointment_. If you don’t want me, I—”

His hands on her cheeks, forcing her to look him in the eye, startles her into silence. Jon thumbs the cold, smooth skin beneath her eyes, catching wetness that he knows is not snow.

“I’ve spent the last year tearing the North to shreds because I thought Bolton had you. Gods help me or damn me, I could not keep my vows, not when it came to you. Do you understand? Pauper or princess, I’ll take you as you are no matter what’s happened. Every last inch of you.”

Jon watches has her face falls, feels her bury her face against his neck. Arya shakes in his arms, and Jon holds her all the tighter for it.

“You are home, little sister. I’ll protect you now,” he says softly, kissing her brow. “You can rest.”

Arya sucks in a sharp breath, and the sound that follows is altogether otherworldly. It is grief and relief and exhaustion all wrapped up into a single, heartbreaking sob. When her legs lose their strength, Jon eases them both to the floor.

In all the years he’d dreamed of this moment—thinking it possible, and later knowing it was only fantasy—Jon never imagined what would happen _after_. Or at least, he did not imagine it would be this—this overwhelming, smothering sadness. So consumed with the North, he had long since thought that Ramsay Bolton was the worst that could befall Arya—his cruelty, his _proclivities_. But listening to his little sister now, in his arms, he wonders what had happened in those seven years they had been apart. He wonders what might be worse out there in the hills and forests and towns of Westeros. What had she seen? What had happened to her? His imagined answers to those questions only bring tears to his eyes, and, just now, Jon knows he does not have the strength to ask.

**Author's Note:**

> So that's that. One thing that I think gets overlooked a lot in reunion fic or War for the Dawn fic is the sheer amount of PTSD that Arya must experience after her return home. In the early WQ 'verse fics, I try to highlight that, which you begin to see the start of here. I have a lot of this 'verse plotted in my head, but I'm not sure what will get put to paper. I hope to continue returning to it though. 
> 
> As always, feel free to message me over on tumblr ([@jonryatrash](https://jonryatrash.tumblr.com/)). If you want to check out how I imagine Jon and Arya to look, I've made edits of them ([Jon](https://jonryatrash.tumblr.com/post/173777081075/asoiaf-modern-au-jon-snow-some-people-are-just) and [Arya](https://jonryatrash.tumblr.com/post/168691981160/asoiaf-modern-au-arya-stark-im-going-to-be-the)).


End file.
